


you matter to me

by yesmalady



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series)
Genre: Broadway, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Waitress the musical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24404632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesmalady/pseuds/yesmalady
Summary: “Oooohhhhh, poppin’ my Broadway cherry, huh, Half-Sour?”* * *Brad’s never seen a Broadway show. Claire decides it’s time to change that. So they’re going to watch Waitress.
Relationships: Brad Leone & Claire Saffitz, Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	1. a pretty good bad idea

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fanfic in 12 years, so I'm definitely blaming this on the pandemic.
> 
> I have to admit—I haven’t watched all of the Bon Appetit videos yet. I fell pretty hard and fast into this fandom, reading most of the stories here in two days. While listening to songs from Waitress, I remembered one fic where Brad briefly makes fun of Clare’s Broadway playlist, and tada! Fanfic was born. If that detail came from your story, please let me know so I can properly credit you for sparking this idea.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. Please be cool and don’t go sending this to those involved.
> 
> So…yeah. On with the fluff!

Andy is visiting friends in California, so Gaby sets Claire up at his station. Adam has asked her to come up with more recipes for BA.com, and now that she’s completely finished with her book, she’s eager to start creating again.

Behind her, Brad is filming a new episode of _It’s Alive_. She measures out the rye flour, smiling to herself as he trips over the words in his excitement.

“Add whatever you want, okay? I’ve got a little bit of, ah, celery seed, some pink peppercorns, and, uh—more garlic. Nice,” he proclaims.

“Now the fermentation, it’ll really make all those flavors sing, you know? Like those folks on Broadway,” he continues, adding even more garlic to the glass jar. “Or so I’ve heard. Never been.”

Claire sets down her knife and whirls around. “Are you serious? Brad.”

She looks at him incredulously. He shrugs and then lowers his elbows to the counter so he doesn’t loom over her.

Hunzi not-so-subtly signals for the boom mic to be brought closer.

Unfazed, Brad screws on the lid and gives the jar a good shake. “Yeah, Claire. I just—never got around to it.”

“You grew up in Jersey,” she points out, “and our office _literally_ used to be in the Theater District.”

“I don’t know what to tell ya, Claire,” he says cheerfully. “Maybe one of these days, huh?” He scratches at his goobalini, causing a few curls to escape. “Where were we, Hunzi? Oh yeah—singing!”

* * *

Two hours later, she’s still thinking about how Brad has never seen a Broadway show—and how it was time to change that.

But which musical?

 _The Book of Mormon_ was a classic. She loved _Hamilton_ and _Dear Evan Hansen_ , of course, and would recommend either of those shows in a heartbeat. And while she isn’t sure how Brad feels about Alanis Morissette, she does know _Jagged Little Pill_ is opening soon.

Still thinking, she tugs her chilled pie crust closer and begins rolling it out with quick, sure movements.

Then it hits her: _Waitress._

_* * *_

She has half an hour before her _Gourmet Makes_ call time, and she’s looking to make the most of it. She hides out with her laptop in one of the empty conference rooms and begins her search for _Waitress_ tickets.

Her face falls as she comes up empty on website after website.

“Crap,” she says, her eyes flitting across the news article onscreen. _Waitress_ was closing in January, so naturally, tickets are sold out.

She chews at her lower lip, weighing her options.

Then she picks up her phone, calls her friend Anne in the Condé Nast PR department, and tries not to think about how she would only go to such lengths for a handful of people—including, apparently, Brad Leone.

_* * *_

The next day, Claire’s running late for a _Gourmet Makes_ production meeting. But when she hears Ryan call her name soon as she gets off the elevator, it’s her heartbeat that picks up—not her pace.

“I have something for you from PR,” Ryan says, holding out a white envelope. “Made me _swear_ to not lose this, so I wanted to get it to you right away. Must be pretty important, huh?”

Claire grins around the straw of her iced coffee and takes it with her free hand. “Oh, you have no idea. Thanks, Ryan!”

_* * *_

She’s been waiting to talk to him in private (well, as private as it can get in an open plan test kitchen), so when he heads over to his fermentation station to do one last check before calling it a day, she jumps at the chance.

She wipes her sweaty palms on her apron and rests one hand on the counter, feigning casualness. “Hey, Brad?”

Brad jerks his head back from the open jar he was sniffing. “Hooooo boy!” He coughs once, twice, before smiling at her. “What’s up, Claire?”

She laughs as he wipes at his watering eyes. Even from this far away, she can smell the funk. She can only imagine how bad it is for Brad, who had stuck his nose right in there. “Can you come here for a sec?”

He ambles over and hunkers down onto the seat next to her.

“Um,” she begins, eloquently, “what’re you doing Saturday?”

The sides of his eyes crinkle as a broad smile spreads across his face. “Claire Saffitz,” he drawls, “are you asking me out?”

His attempt at teasing backfires. The tips of his ears turn the same shade of red that stains Claire’s cheeks, but she doesn’t notice.

“Oh, Brad,” she huffs, flustered. “It’s not like—it’s not a big deal, okay? I was just thinking, you know, if you were free—” (Why was it suddenly so hard to string together a sentence?) “—I figured you could see your first Broadway show.”

“Oooohhhhh, poppin’ my Broadway cherry, huh, Half-Sour?” His voice carries easily across the test kitchen, and her blush deepens, even though (she’s pretty sure) no one else is there.

“It’s a matinee,” she adds hastily. (Anne had asked if she preferred an evening show, but a matinee seemed more friendly, less like a date, right? Friends watched stuff together all the time.) She watches as his mirth-filled eyes rake over her face. “Just—are you free or not?”

“Yeah, okay,” he finally says, softly. “Let’s do it.”

She exhales the breath she didn’t know she was holding and beams at him. “Great! You won’t be sorry, Brad, I promise.”

“No,” he agrees, watching as she dashes out, “I don’t think I could be.”

_* * *_

Later that night, she replays all of this in her head as she stares at the ceiling.

She wonders if she should’ve offered him both tickets, but as soon as the thought crosses her mind, she feels a hot swoop of anger in her stomach.

And as she rolls over and aggressively fluffs her pillow, she tells herself it’s because she went through a lot of trouble to get said tickets, so _she_ should get to enjoy them—not the nameless, faceless woman whom she imagines Brad would’ve invited instead.

 _Besides_ , she thinks, her last coherent thought before dropping off to sleep, _this isn’t a date. It’s a freaking_ matinee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next—Brad and Claire watch Waitress!


	2. attention's sweet center

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind words!

Brad offers to swing by her place first so they could go together, but she insists on meeting him outside the Brooks Atkinson Theatre instead.

From half a block away, Claire can see him scanning the crowd of excited theatergoers.

“Claire!” he says ( _yells_ ), waving energetically when he finally spots her.

She lets out an embarrassed little chuckle and makes her way over.

Soon as she’s close enough, he spreads out his long arms, and comes really close to clipping the back of someone’s head.

She hesitates ( _panics_ ), tries to remember if they’re the type of friends who greet each other with a hug.

“This okay?” he says.

She goes with an inelegant “Huh?” 

“My outfit,” he clarifies, lowering his arms slightly to do a little turn. “Wasn’t sure if you had to get dressed up for these things, so I—uh, thought I’d clean up. Just a skosh, you know? Nothin’ too crazy.”

She gives him a once-over (okay, maybe her eyes linger in places), taking in his chinos, a gray coat she’s never seen before, and a soft-looking black sweater.

“Perfect,” she says, unable to resist smoothing down his (already straight) coat collar. “You look perfect, Brad.”

He grins boyishly and clears his throat. “Well, you know, you don’t look so bad yourself, Claire.”

“Um, thanks,” she says, ducking her head as she feels her cheeks going warm. Refusing to entertain the memory of this afternoon’s five outfit changes, she grabs his arm and steers him towards the back of the line. “C’mon.”

“So what’s this… _Waitress_ about, anyway?” Brad asks. He sticks his right hand into his pocket, unknowingly (knowingly?) keeping the hand that’s wrapped around his arm in place. “Lemme guess—a waitress!” He chuckles.

“Oh, Brad,” she says, her exasperation tempered by her observation of how solid his arm feels underneath her left hand. “You like pie, right? It’s basically all about pie.”

He lets out an exuberant whoop. “Sold! You _know_ I love pie.”

“I’m actually developing a few new recipes,” she says, her eyes drawn to the slice the lead actress holds out in the poster hanging outside. She winces, thinking of the half-formed ideas in her notebook and the half-made pies in the test kitchen freezer. “None of them are quite right yet, though.”

“Look, Claire—if _you_ can’t figure ‘em out, no one can. Okay?”

“Hey, don’t jinx me—or my pies!” she protests, a smile tugging at her lips.

As usual, he talks right over her. “ _Always_ makin’ the rest of us look bad. Jeez!”

She has a love-hate relationship with his pep talks.

_* * *_

Inside, Claire pulls the tickets out of her purse and shows them to the smiling usher.

As they walk closer and closer to the stage, the aisle progressively slopes downward, and she feels his right arm further tighten against his side, holding her close and steady.

She couldn’t imagine the tiny theater seats being comfortable for someone over six feet tall, so she had requested that Anne get an aisle seat, if she could.

Still, Brad’s so tall that his knees bump up against the seat in front of him. And there’s no elbow room, either, so now that she has both hands back, she settles for stiffly clasping them together on her lap.

“ _Great_ seats, Claire,” he says, noting how close they are to the front.

“Yeah, we really lucked out, huh,” she says casually.

“You know…” He waits for her to look at him before continuing. “You know, Carla said tickets have been sold out for months. Half-Sour, did you play the ‘I’m a YouTube star’ card for these?”

She shushes him frantically. “Now would be a good time for you to learn theater etiquette,” she hisses, “starting with the importance of _keeping your voice_ _down_.”

Eyes sparkling, he opens his mouth to say something else, but he’s interrupted by a Sara Bareilles song reminding people to turn off their phones—thank _God._

_* * *_

She watches him watch the show.

She tells herself it’s because she’s already seen _Waitress_ a couple of years ago, but—as cliché as it sounds for a pastry chef to love a musical about a pie-maker—it really _is_ one of her favorites, so she could definitely be paying more attention.

She just can’t help it.

Brad wears an adorable little grin as his eyes dart across the stage to take in the choreography, his leg jiggling in time with the music.

He guffaws at the pie names: Deep Shit—uh, Dish—Blueberry Pie, Jump in Without a Net Bottomless Pie, Betrayed by My Eggs Pie.

He’s mostly good about not speaking, but after seeing the lead actress effortlessly crack an egg one-handed, he can’t resist leaning over to whisper, “Ha! Gotta tell Morocco.”

She nods and lets a laugh ( _giggle_ ) escape—mostly because she knows how much that detail would irk Chris, but also because nothing could’ve prepared her for the tickling sensation of Brad’s breath on her right ear and cheek.

_* * *_

When the lights come up at intermission, she slides her eyes over to his, only to find him already looking at her.

“Are you—how are you liking your first Broadway experience so far?” she asks.

He reaches out and puts his hand atop hers, rubbing gently at the knuckles. Almost instantaneously, her shoulders relax. She finally unclasps her fingers, slowly turning one hand over and watching it fit into his.

“I love it,” he says sincerely. “Thanks for taking me, Claire.”

_* * *_

A few minutes later, Brad unfolds his large frame from the tiny seat and gets up—to head to the restroom, she presumes—but he’s back in a flash with four small mason jars.

“Check it out, Claire!” He presents them to her with a flourish. “They sell _pie_!”

There’s apple, key lime, chocolate salted caramel, and— Their fingers reach for the pumpkin spice pie at the same time.

Brad pops the jar open. She hands him a wooden spoon, and they dig in.

“You know, it’s good,” he says thoughtfully, the flavors of the warm spices and sweet pumpkin dancing on his tongue, “but yours is better.”

She smiles, thinking not of pecan-rye pumpkin pie, but of egg rolls and fudge, rides and games, and _Brad_ , right at the center of every moment.

“ _Our_ pie,” she corrects him, “is the best.”

Their verdict doesn’t stop her from taking another spoonful. Despite her full mouth, her next words come out loud and clear: “And it should’ve at least _placed_ in that competition.”

“Alright, Half-Sour, cool it,” Brad says good-naturedly. “How ‘bout we try the key lime, huh?”

_* * *_

She really wishes she had thought this through.

 _Waitress_ is a love story—between a baker and her creations, between mother and daughter, between a woman who loses herself and the man who shines a light on her worth.

It all feels a little too familiar, so she’s teary for a lot of the second act.

When everyone in the audience rises at curtain call, Brad turns to her. His elated grin transforms into a soft look of concern.

“Oh, Claire,” he says, but the applause is so loud, she _sees_ him say it more than she actually hears. He makes a show of dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve, and offers her his other sleeve.

As she laughs through her tears, he slips an arm around her shoulders.

She shifts her weight from her left foot to her right, and sways closer into his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Brad and Claire talk about the show...and more.


End file.
